


Murder on the Eriador Express

by merethengilith



Series: Mary writes all the hobbit AUs [1]
Category: Murder on the Orient Express, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 1930's AU, Alternate Universe, Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins were like middle earth's sherlock and john, Ever - Freeform, F/M, Gandalf should never plan road trips, and all the other countries exist too, basically I really wanted to write this au, be prepared for the kiliel fluff starting from part 2 onwards, did i mention babies? because babies, everyone's pretty much human, in which middle-earth is a european country, pretty much as canon compliant I can make this given the AU, so frerin's got a wife and daughter, there really isn't a race thing, you know because in the book
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merethengilith/pseuds/merethengilith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins: Acclaimed children's and adult's novelist, just beginning to quench his wanderlust. When his beloved (and highly trying) godfather: Gandalf, insisted that he leave England and take a trip to Europe and visit Arda, he agrees. What he wasn't expecting was to be snowed-in halfway from Rivendell Station to the coast, with a dead person and a dozen or so suspects. Bilbo Baggins finds himself a reluctant sleuth (or as Gandalf says, one worthy to rival his mother) trying to solve the greatest mystery ever to have been (aside from his cousin's impulse to steal his silverware).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover Image

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first attempt at posting fanfic on A03, I'm usually on fanfic.net  
> Anyway, so I've been wanting a murder on the orient express AU for a while now, and seeing as no one's written it yet, I just sort of went 'why the hell not?'. I do apologise for being unable to fit in the entirety of the company, but for plot reasons, the final group I came up with was the best as it corresponded well to the original motives of the characters in the book. I am also hoping to post a couple of pictures that mimic Poirot's working out from the book, so they'll pop up at the relevant chapters.  
> So, without much further ado, here's the prologue:


	2. Prologue

Prologue

Bilbo Baggins, needless to say, was excited to be finally getting out of his home and on a real adventure to the continent, and furthermore to explore Arda. Not one in his books, nor one of his mother’s tales of travel to Cairo or Turkey or other such exotic locales. No, while it was not his planning (but one of that accursed friend of his mother’s; Gandalf), something awoke in him, something that made him want to take this challenge on head first. Yet, his adventure was over and Bree was nothing like he remembered from childhood. Bree, he was certain, was never that grimy and industrial, nor were the cars so smoggy and the grass wasn’t quite as soft and green as he remembered.

And so he stood at Bree Station, standing beneath a glass room and smartly-dressed holiday goers buzzing around him, finally able to return home to the comforts of his rustic, Hampshire residence. For Bilbo Baggins lived in Shire county, a county prized for their produce and livestock. And he longed for nothing more than to be back in his armchair.  He noticed that his ticket had given him meant that he was assigned to the first-class carriage until he alighted for a change at Grand Rivendell Station, then from Rivendell, it was a train trip to the coast, then he was to catch a boat back to England. All around him porters were taking on the trunks of other passengers. To his immense relief, the dreaded sight of his temporary host (and cousin) Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her gaudy-matching hat and coat, were whisked away into a second-rate compartment with her frog-like husband.

“Let us hope that you are not snowed too heavily on your route. The Blizzards have come early this year.” The porter had said to him “By the way, I was asked by the Lord Elrond; who owns this railway-“

“Yes, yes I know who Elrond is-“

“-To thank you for your assistance with the matter.” The porter nodded, Bilbo noted he was rather a grim-faced man. “I am Lindir, by the way.”

“Bilbo Baggins. Tell me, Mr Lindir, are there many others travelling?”

“In first class? Oh no just two others. The Colonel has just been back from Erid Luin, I believe and the handsome, smart-dressed young man- oh there he is- he’s been corresponding in Rohan, visited family in Erid Luin. Most of them are on their way home via the Eriador express. Like yourself, on the way back to London.” Bilbo listened to Lindir’s gossip, observing the man he had just pointed out, as he had lifted the blinds of the compartment, leaning against the window. The young man was certainly handsome, he’d give him that, his golden hair neatly combed back, his beard neatly trimmed and he was indeed smartly dressed in his travelling suit of the finest tweed.

The whistles began to sound and steam began to rapidly pour out of the train. Giving a farewell nod to Lindir, he entered the first-class dining cart, going over his arrangements with Gandalf. The young man from earlier also occupied the dining cart, coolly asking for a coffee from an attendant and eating his breakfast with a calm and collected exterior. Bilbo always liked to think he was a keen-eyed person, likely to pick things that other people missed. But it was not that important, after all, he _was_ on this train to relax and enjoy himself. No unexpected adventures or bothersome relatives who steal silverware or telegrams and bills and other boring pieces of daily life.

“Do you mind?” the Colonel gestured to the empty seat, holding his breakfast in his hands.

“Not at all.” The young man replied calmly, nodding.

“Colonel Balin, at your service.” The exchange ended there and Bilbo was (rather rudely, in his opnion) excluded from anything else. With a cool efficiency, the young man left the room, giving slight nods to both Balin and to Bilbo himself. Nothing of import happened for the rest of the day, indeed, Bilbo sat happily in his carriage until it was time for dinner time.

He hadn’t _meant_ to hear the conversation, but he _distinctly_ heard the Colonel call the young man by his first name.

“Fìli, lad-“

“No, not now. Not… now. When all this is over, when it’s all behind us.” Bilbo now had a name to that face. There was a pause in the conversation, Bilbo supposed it was the beautiful view that had emerged after the tunnel was what stopped him from resuming his chatter. The rolling hills, the beautiful plains were all incredible breathtaking. It was certainly more golden and dry, in comparison to the emerald-green hills of his home, yet it captivated him like nothing else. “I wish I could just enjoy this-“

“Don’t worry.” Balin sighed, the dull clapping of a hand on thick fabric was heard through the compartment wall. “I wish you could sit this out but-“

“No.” That was the last Bilbo heard any of them speak, or saw them, in fact. Not until they left their carriage and stepped onto Rivendell station. Bilbo, of course, had been here for a couple of days previously, visiting Lord Elrond who _insisted_ , as director of this line alongside Gandalf, that he take this trip in his stead, rather than drive all the way to the sea. Bilbo had agreed at the time, thinking that it would be nothing better than to have someone to talk to (or proof-read his book at least), but now he was seriously re-considering that statement seeing as his lovely godfather Gandalf Greyhame had a horrible habit of planning trips, abandoning his friends, then being found at pubs of questionable legality several hours later with his new ‘friends’.

Rivendell station was certainly grand, able to rival perhaps the stations of the communist Moscow (his mother hand photos, how she got in, he had _no_ idea) or the Grand Central Station of New York. Yet, he was on a tight schedule, their train had been delayed for a good ten minutes and it was enough to illicit a frustrated twitch from Fìli. Bilbo had tried to engage him in conversation that morning, yet the attempt proved fruitless with the young man curtly and icily answering his small talk. He was honestly surprised that a mere delay was enough to agitate him, yet to that Fìli replied that he was on a tight schedule and could not possibly miss his connection. And so, late in the day after a few stressful minutes of locating his luggage, Bilbo found himself wandering the same path Elrond had shown him those weeks prior, to the Imaldris Hotel, where Bilbo supposed, he could at least work on his book and get a good night’s sleep before his trip. Making a mental note to try and secure a first or second-class berth, he set up his typewriter and began to ponder his next line.


	3. Part 1- The Facts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where the story really begins. I do apologise for the delay though, I've been really busy with a lot of things and this just got pushed further down the list of things to do. This was a bit of a struggle to write, because I needed to assign which member of the company was which character from the book and it took a while but I think I've got it. Anyway, enjoy this chapter and feel free to tell me what you think :)

 

“Sir?” Bilbo stirred from his writing desk and found that it was quite early in the morning, he must’ve fallen asleep writing that damned romance section. Bilbo opened the door, making his best attempt to look presentable given the circumstances. “We’ve made inquiries for you about your train.”

“Oh, oh you have?” He straightened just a little, noting who it was who met him at the door. “Trains are usually empty this time of year, have you got me a compartment?”

“Just sorting that out right now, there have been several delays along our westward line, given the fact it is snowing rather heavily near Erid Luin. Hopefully it does clear up in time for your train.” Elrohir possessed all the eloquence and appearance of his father, he was certainly the more serious-minded of the twins. “I know you’re rather fond of my sister’s cooking, so father has asked that you have lunch with us. He also apologises for being unable to see you off, he has had some important business with grandmamma.”

“Ah, the Lady Galadriel.” Bilbo smiled.

“Oh, and before I forget; Gandalf is here, he wants to see Elladan off for his morning tennis match before he departs.” And with that parting note he left, leaving Bilbo to hastily pack his things and give him enough time to change his clothes. True to his word, Gandalf paced in the lobby, waiting for him, dressed in his usual grey travelling suit.

“I was hoping, dear Bilbo, to catch you a little later and give you some time-“

“No, it’s no trouble at all.” Bilbo hastily answered. A porter collected Bilbo’s luggage and placed it inside Elrohir’s car. “Does your father _really_ let you drive your own car?” Bilbo asked with a hint of suspicion, Gandalf choked on his pipe smoke.

“What father doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He doesn’t even know I can drive. You pick these things up at Oxford.” Elrohir said with a sense of mischief that reminded Bilbo of his twin. “It’s a surprise at all that he shipped us off to Britain, with a place at Gondor University and all. But I suppose, father has a way of knowing things. Now, no one is to mention my sister’s-“

“Lover?” Gandalf asked slyly.

“Suitor is the term we use in polite society.” Elrohir corrected.

After a polite breakfast, in which no mentions of Arwen’s lover were made, Elrohir saw them off to a station restaurant, once again profusely apologising for his father’s absence.

“My dear Bilbo, it seems your success has put you at the top of the tree!” Gandalf decided it would be appropriate to break Bilbo from his chain of thoughts. He shook his head and stared at his tea-cup.

“Well… I guess you could say-“

“Your father wouldn’t have been none the more proud.” He gave one of his trademark twinkling smiles and took a sip of tea. “As for your mother-“

“She’d have been proud that I actually left my doorstep. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, Gandalf. I write about the histories of places, I do my research, I send telegrams to universities and get sent maps in return. You _know_ why I don’t like travelling.”

“Yes but regardless, you are here. I warned you that you would not by the same person when you returned from your trip. I see before me a Bilbo Baggins who has been fascinated by this country and would like nothing better than to write of it.”

“Yes, but this place… it’s history is like a fairytale. I write about the truth, not some fictionalised account of how the Yavanna created the large, ancient trees of the forests.-“

“But you’d have to admit, it makes wonderful reading.” Bilbo sighed, acknowledging that he did indeed find those tales fascinating. It was there that he caught sight of him.

“Pay the bill, Bolg.” The man commanded in a rough, American accent.

“Oh, what do you make of them?” Gandalf’s voice was hardly above a whisper, he too noticing the bossy American. Bilbo wasn’t quite sure of what to make of him. He certainly looked respectable, yet it was something about that face that made Bilbo shudder in his seat. His pale, white face was almost death-like, his smile seemed to stretch scars that ran along his lower cheek up to his temple. And those eyes, those eyes unnerved as they stared around the room like an animal behind a cage.

“Is that so?” Bilbo gasped, realising he must’ve said it all aloud. He just hoped that the man hadn’t heard. It appeared he didn’t, as Bilbo left hurriedly in order to make the train. A concierge man came towards Bilbo, shaking his head. Bilbo looked to Gandalf, who shrugged, not quite sure what the matter was.

“It appears there aren’t any first or second-class berths left, sir.” The concierge apologised with a sheepish grin.

“But it’s the middle of bloody winter! Even the Fell Winter back home wasn’t as cold as this!” Bilbo protested before taking a deep breath, understanding that he was being quite unreasonable. “Look, it’s alright. Are there any third-class compartments?”

“Well… in terms of second-hand berths, there is always the number 16, but that is usually reserved and never used.”

“Is there no other?” Gandalf asked with a slightly indignant huff.

“Well, there is… but it’s reserved for the Prince’s companion. Who, with no offence, is rather a stout man who could take up all the space inside.”

“Well… that certainly _is_ awkward…” Bilbo started slowly, however was interrupted by a conductor, announcing that a Mr Harris will not be arriving, therefore leaving a berth free. “Well, I _do_ know my Dickens, he will most decidedly _not_ be arriving. If he does, I’m sure you could mention how berths are very rarely reserved as there is a large demand for them.” He wasn’t quite sure where that came out from, but Gandalf was smiling proudly at him for managing to be rash and abrasive. His father on the other hand, Bilbo was sure was rolling in his grave. The concierge and porter both nodded, announcing it was fair, now moving Bilbo’s things to berth seven.

“Are you Mr Harris?” A man who seemed to be already rather well-acquainted with his surroundings stood up from the lower berth, holding out his hand to shake.

“No, I’m Bilbo Baggins, Mr Harris has not arrived and they’ve kindly given me his berth.” Bilbo replied with a smile.

“I’m Nori Voleur. Pleasure to meet you.” He took in his new acquaintance’s strange moustache and even more peculiar hair, but he thought nothing of it, perhaps it was better to remain quiet about these sorts of things, after all it was only polite. “So you’re getting off at Weathertop Station?”

“Hmm… What? Oh, we appear to be moving!” Bilbo felt awkward at having missed the Nori’s question. There had been a sudden jerk and the train began to move, slowly then with gaining speed out of the beautiful station. This was it. This was his journey home. The Eriador Express had started its three-day journey across Arda.

* * *

Bilbo awoke a little later that morning, yet still prompt to be dressed in his crisp morning suit, looking presentable in what felt like a menagerie of a dining cart. Not that his fellow passengers were animals, no, but there was such a large variety of them. Yet his troublesome godfather and travelling companion had still not graced him with his presence. It was not until Bilbo was indulging himself in his morning tea (or elevensies, as he liked to call it) and a delectable cream cheese, that Gandalf had magically plopped into the seat opposite him.

“I’d say it’s a rather romantic trip, isn’t it?” Bilbo thought it was honestly too early in the morning for this.

“I quite simply don’t know what you’re talking about.” He sipped his tea, ignoring Gandalf and his thrice-accursed sparkly scarf.

“I mean that there are many people of different social standings and ranks and nationalities all dining in the cart, my dear.” Gandalf informed with his usual mischievous twinkle. There was once a time, as a child, where he’d follow that man running after him on adventures. Needless to say his mother and father certainly laughed themselves till they cried, seeing a small sandy-haired boy running barefoot after the old war veteran pretending to be slaying dragons or solving crimes like his mother, as he got a little older. All that died off, all that romping around the lush hills of the countryside. Things changed; his mother died, his father followed her, he got a job. Quite simply he grew up. Yet this trip, this trip changed him, it satisfied all that wanderlust he’d had as a child. He found himself again and helped him realise that he really needed to understand his mother and father loved him very much. “Well, did you enjoy the food?”

“Well, the ale in Erebor was certainly quite good.”

“Quite good?” The wizard asked in indignation.

“Alright, if it flatters you to know, worthy to rival Shire ale. I don’t think the food in Mirkwood agreed with me very well, but I suppose it’s all the experience. “ Bilbo added with a smile, shuddering at the work Thranduil would have for him when he returned home. There was a novel (and more importantly, his salary) at stake.

Bilbo kept sipping his tea, observing three men a little further from him, deep in conversation. Gandalf was right, there _were_ people of all different nationalities in this single dining cart. Thirteen of them, in fact, not including himself and Gandalf.  At the furthest table, an overly-elegant and majestic gentleman silently commanded a waiter to bring him more coffee, his black hair streaked with the occasional white and with the bluest eyes Bilbo had ever seen on a man. With a mere gesture of his ringed hand, the waiter poured milk and added sugar, trying not to trip over himself in the process.

“Bit of an imposing man, isn’t he?” Gandalf pointed to the man Bilbo had just been observing. He calmly finished his coffee and stood from his place, his companion handed him a heavily-furred coat and with a regal nod of the head, thanked his companion.

“Majestic areshole.” Bilbo coughed out before taking a slice of cake from a roaming waiter.

“I wouldn’t call him that to his face, dear godson. That is Prince Thorin, constitutional monarch of Erebor.”

“ _The_ Prince Thorin?” Bilbo asked “Doesn’t he have a sister or something?”

“Oh yes, and a brother, but that isn’t of importance. He did the right thing, however had to give up his kingdom in order to see his people better off. When their mining and smithing industry began to fail, he didn’t have much of a choice. He resides now in Erid Luin, where he may perchance be getting off-“

“Or with my luck he’ll get off at London for a holiday. No doubt he’ll blend in with the grim atmosphere, there’s no mistaking that stormy brow.”

“Don’t be so cynical, Bilbo.” Gandalf reprimanded half-heartedly.

At another large table, Bilbo spied Fìli, dressed in yet another one of his sharp suits, having to endure a conversation with a rather loud American woman. She seemed to go on for a godforsaken age about her daughter and her daughter’s opinion on this and that and the currency and the food. It was quite honestly driving him up the wall. Yet he was not alone in this plight, he shared the table with an older man, with a gentle face and constantly offering cups of chamomile. It was a bit early for that, wasn’t it? Balin appeared to be sitting on his own, merely observing the back of Fìli’s head. Another man sat on his own, a stout man for sure. He was the man who had handed the Prince his coat, rather content in clearing his plate with nary a crumb.

“Oh, she’s rather beautiful.” Bilbo pointed to a striking woman who had just entered, with emerald eyes and hair that could rival fire in its hue of red and warmth. Beside her, talking animatedly was her husband, he contrasted her with his black hair and sparkling brown eyes, charming her with his roguish grin. “Same could be said for the husband, if anything.”

“Hungarian embassy or something of the sorts, newlyweds.” Gandalf added as Bilbo flinched when the wife leaned into her husband’s shoulders for a one-armed embrace. “I’d steer clear of their berths if I were you.”

“No warning needed. They _are_ a charming pair, though.” Bilbo admitted, smiling at their loving glances. There were only two more travellers, Bilbo’s fellow berth-mate and the distasteful man from the station restaurant.

“Do you look at your wild animal?” He asked. Bilbo nodded with a bit of a shudder. They finished their food and Gandalf invited him to join in conversation back in his berth. Bilbo agreed, not liking to be alone with the unsightly man.

One by one the other travellers left the dining cart, the newlyweds walked out arm-in-arm, stealing a kiss when they thought no one was looking (someone _was_ looking, and Bilbo was going to need soap to wash that image out of his brain). “Oh no, here he comes.” He did his best to pull a polite face as the unsightly man took an unoccupied seat beside Gandalf, pulling out a cigar.

“Got a light?” Bilbo half-expected to be set on fire at that very moment. “My name is Azog.” With a slight nod, Bilbo reached into his pocket, pulling out a matchbox. Azog took it, however he hadn’t lit the cigar. With each passing moment, Bilbo did _wish_ he would, that matchbox had been with him for quite a while, and he didn’t like the thought of it in Azog’s hands.

“I think, I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Bilbo Baggins, correct?”

“You are not mistaken.” Bilbo gulped, trying his best to give a polite smile. Though he had a distinct feeling he was desperately failing.

“Where I come from, we like to cut to the point very quickly. I’d like for you to take a case for me.”

“And why would that be?” If anything, he was about three parts indignant and just a dash of incredulity.

“Everyone knows who your parents are. Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. The greatest detective of all time and her… Boswell, did she call him?”

“Alright, that’s just taking the cake.” Bilbo rose from his seat, ignoring the odd looks His Royal Arsehole was giving him. “Get out of my sight, you do _not_ insult my parents-“

“It was not an insult, Baggins. I am a rich man. Very rich. And undoubtedly, I make many enemies. I’ve been receiving several threats, indeed, I sleep with a loaded pistol under my pillow. I was just hoping I could pay you the right price to… investigate as it were.”

“I won’t be taking the case. I am not a detective.”

“Yet your father’s writing would say otherwise,” Azog taunted “I could pay you double, triple than what you make in a year.”

“No.”

“That’s some nerve you have, Baggins. Most people wouldn’t think so, that’s what the others whisper on this train.”

“With all due respect, Mr Azog, my clientele these days are few and limited to hunting down my missing silverware. And, with the least offence possible; I do not like your face.” Bilbo gave a curt nod too Gandalf before fleeing the accursed presence of Azog, Prince Thorin gave him a nod as he exited. Further incensed, Bilbo slammed the door of his berth shut, wishing that he’d never gotten on this confusticated train.


	4. Part 2- The Thrainson Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is the next section. There's a lovely fluffy little bit of Kiliel if you want to read that. Translation for the Khuzdul is: Nothing, I was mistaken. The first part states that the Thrainson Case happened in 1930, so the story should take place about four-ish years afterwards.

 

 

_Bungo’s Journal- July 3 rd 1930_

_It is with some disgust that I read about the latest developments in the Thraìnson Case. Belladonna turned it down, she was too busy. I often wonder what would’ve happened if my dear wife had taken it though._

_Frerìn Thraìnson committed suicide today. I feel horrible for the poor man, he was so desperate when Belladonna visited him. His wife, her name was Mìrna or something along those lines, was expecting a child and lost it. Whether she died of heartbreak or sickness after losing the child, I will never know. The body of little Kira was found about two days ago, Post-Mortem show that Blanc had killed her weeks before he received the ransom._

_There was something about a young nursemaid to Kira, the distraught girl threw herself out a window, they suspected her having sold out the girl. Bella says the police were wrong on that account, there was no way in her opinion that girl could’ve done such a thing. As usual, she is right, the police cleared Sigrid (the nursemaid) of all charges. It is too late though, may God have mercy on her soul._

_Bilbo has received yet another large payment for his story. Something about a little acorn tree, not sure, it’s for children. Belladonna told me it was delightful and to be published by a major printing agency. It would be nice to have grandchildren, Bilbo doesn’t appear to be taking interest in that sweet Proudfoot girl, or that Boffin girl for that matter. Yavanna’s sake Bilbo, I’m getting on and I would like to be able to have fauntlings to read your stories to…_

_Speaking of fauntlings, Drogo’s wife (Primula I think…) had a son. Frederick, I think was his name, but we all call him Frodo. The Christening is in a week, they asked Gandalf to be the Godfather. Knowing the old man, he’ll probably spoil the child rotten. I should probably get Frodo a copy of Bilbo’s Acorn book once it is printed. Bella will probably find it amusing._

* * *

The Eriador Express arrived at Weathertop Station at quarter to nine that evening, and was set to depart at 9:15. Bracing himself for the bitter cold, Bilbo exited the train, taking to pacing and rubbing his hands together to keep warm. Many of the other passengers seemed bothered by the cold, yet whether they voiced their opinions (the American woman was going on and _on_ about her daughter’s fur coat and warnings) or not, Bilbo didn’t care. His Royal Arsehole was politely talking to the newlyweds, the pair seemed to flush red every few seconds (it was either from cold or embarrassment, and Bilbo was betting on the latter), the husband embracing his wife tightly to keep her from the cold.

Upon re-entering his compartment, Bilbo found all his possessions had been removed, the bed straightened and even his portable type-writer had all vanished.

“Oh, sir!” The conductor entered the train, sighing with relief as the winds began to pick up. “Your possessions have been moved-“

“Well _nah_ ,” Bilbo muttered under his breath, clearing his throat.  “And where are they?”

“No.1, Mr Gandalf’s compartment-“

“Gandalf?”

“He personally requested –and by requested he threatened to throw me off this train- that his belongings be moved into a compartment with this amusing doctor. He’s just come back from Greece, for the life of me I can’t remember his name.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. Hopefully the snow isn’t too bad…Is there anything else?”

“Yes, your name?”

“Cyprian Bard.” The conductor exited with a bow, calling that all passengers return to their compartments.

At 9:15 sharp, the Eriador express pulled out of Weathertop Station. It was nice having a berth to himself, while Nori was slightly confused as he had believe that Bilbo was going to be getting off at Weathertop. Gandalf seemed rather amused by his berth mate, Dr Constantine Oin, a knowledgeable fellow, by Gandalf’s standards, but deaf. Bilbo suspected while the good doctor may well and truly be deaf (if his hearing trumpet was anything to go by), perhaps he was _conveniently_ deaf in order to tune out Gandalf’s tendency to soliloquise for too long.

By the second day, it seemed barriers had begun to break down. Balin was talking to Nori and several doors down, the loud American woman was subjecting the sheepish older-gentleman from the morning before, to another tedious rant about something or rather.

“Oh no, my dear, take it, I’ve got many other things to be reading. The cold’s rather frightful, isn’t it?” Bilbo cursed, having been cornered by the American. Her name -if his memory of hearing her introducing herself to _everyone_ on the train was correct- was Mrs Peachum.

“Oh… ehrm yes, yes it is.” Bilbo smiled bracingly at the gentleman as he grimaced, meeting his eyes.

“Now, I hope you’ll sleep well and your head will be better in the morning.”

“It’s only the cold, I’ll make myself some chamomile.”

“Have you got some aspirin? Are you sure, now? I’ve got plenty! Well, good night my dear.” Bilbo wanted to slam his head repeatedly against the door as she turned towards him conversationally. “Poor creature.” Bilbo nodded, the uneasiness quickly building up within him. “The man’s half-swede, Dori Grau his name was, so I learned earlier. As far as I learned he’s a teacher, or something along those lines. Nice, doesn’t know much Khuzdul or even, god forbid, Sindarin!” Bilbo nodded, acknowledging the two major dialects of Ardish, personally Bilbo found Sindarin Ardish much easier to understand, however the sources for learning Khuzdul were limited. “She wasn’t very interested when I told her about my daughter.”

 _‘No one’s interested when it comes to your daughter. I wonder how she copes.’_ Bilbo thought internally. “Oh.” Bilbo managed to answer. Bilbo thought that surely by now everyone from Ered Luin to fucking Dol Amaroth knew who Mrs Peachum’s daughter was. He even knew her name was Polly and engaged to some stupid bloke, he didn’t know _why_ he knew, but he was hoping he would be let out of this conversation as quickly as propriety dictates.

The next door opened and Azog peered out. His face darkened upon seeing Bilbo, then shut the door quickly again. Mrs Peachum drew Bilbo aside, closer to her door. As irritating as she was, he pitied the person who would have to share a communicating door with Azog.

“You know, I’m dead scared of that man! There’s something _wrong_ about him. You know my daughter says I’m very intutitive. What is it that she says? ‘ _When momma has a hunch, she’s dead right!’_ That’s what she says. He’s next door to me and I don’t like it at all, no, not one bit. You know, I thought I heard him try the door-handle! The _nerve_ , why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the man was a murderer, or worse! He could be one of those people you read about. I dare say I’m foolish-“

 _‘Well, no shit’_ Bilbo internally commented.

“But my daughter said I’d have an easy ride, but I don’t feel happy at all. And _how_ that man can handle being his assistant! Oh, I have no idea.

“Come into my carriage, you know I haven’t asked but have you heard of the policy in India, by all means-“ Bilbo turned to see Balin being led by Nori into his berth, holding the door open for the man. Bilbo turned back to face Mrs Peachum, trying to formulate a reason as to why he should be going in the next three seconds. Not for the first time during the conversation, Bilbo wondered why politeness was such a struggle.

“I guess I’ll go back to writing-“

“Oh! Oh yes, I absolutely _must_ get you to sign my books. My daughter’s a nanny and I picked up these books, oh where are they?” Mrs Peachum threw open her door and with a surprising speed, thrust several books into Bilbo’s unprepared arms. After hurriedly signing them, he bid her good night.

Bilbo awoke with a start some time later with a start, noticing that the train had stopped moving. It was almost like a yell, or a cry, that was what had him wake up all of a sudden. He tried to investigate the source of the noise, opening the door of his compartment just a crack, he peaked out.

“ _Ambâkh. Mâshgami ê.”_

“Good night, sir.”

Bilbo sighed with relief, his mind at rest, before checking his watch and pulling back his bed covers. It had just ticked over to 12:37.

Bilbo found it difficult to go to sleep all at once, after the slight worry. For one thing, he missed the motion of the train and if it _was_ a station outside, it was unnaturally quiet. By contrast, the train seemed unusually _loud_. He could hear Azog messing about with the sink, footsteps from the corridor outside and someone shuffling about in padded house slippers. Bilbo realised his throat felt dry and _no_ it was not from nervousness, he had supposed he’d forgotten his usual order of mineral water. Bilbo would ring for the conductor, however as his finger hovered over the small bell, he heard a trill sound pierce the night. Several bells seemed to be ringing at once, or, if Bilbo’s deductions were correct, one person, hold their finger over the bell. It sounded impatient, perhaps Bard had fallen asleep. Heavy footfalls were heard outside his door, it sounded close, and with a smile Bilbo heard Mrs Peachum begin to regale the man with a list of grievances. Or so he assumed. The altercation lasted quite a while, comprising of ninety per cent Mrs Peachum going on and on about something, and ten per cent Bard trying to soothe the woman. However it ended with Bilbo distinctly hearing a ‘good night, madam’. Capitalising on this opportunity, Bilbo rang his bell, opening the door quietly for the much-tried conductor.

“Mrs Peachum alright?”

“You would not _believe_ the time I had with her. She was absolutely convinced that there was a man in her compartment. So I decided to humour her and I searched that damned compartment several times over. Yet she was still so convinced there was someone there!” Bard fumed, pouring Bilbo his glass of mineral water, the man had been so thoughtful to remember Bilbo had forgotten his usual order. “She insists she woke up and there was a man. And even if there was, there’s no way for him to escape-“

“No way to escape?”

“We’re snowed in, just between Weathertop and Fornost. Hopefully we aren’t stopped for very long, I was once snowed in near Erebor for about a week.”

“God, I hope not.”

“Well, enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr Baggins. Get some rest.”

Bilbo had fallen asleep for some time before a large bump at his door awoke him. Grumbling, he opened his door, gazing out into the corridor seeing a woman in a scarlet kimono walking away from him, hair tucked underneath a shingle cap. At the other end, Bard was slowly dropping off to sleep, large pieces of paper scattered on a table before him. Bilbo decided he was merely suffering some nerves before falling back asleep.

* * *

Things were not well with the Count and Countess Durìn. To the pair it seemed that fate and the world was constantly against them, everything from their meeting to their marriage to why they were even on this infernal train. Troubles in Austro-Hungary, what did they expect? And of _course_ they were called off mid-way through their honeymoon. It was a rather rushed affair, if he was being honest, both sides of the family tutted and shook their heads in disgrace. The pair was at one point half-in mind to elope and run off to some far-flung country and never return, somewhere where they could walk in starlight together.

“ _Ghivashel_? Are you alright?” Kìli knocked upon his wife’s communicating door, sensing that she was as reckless as he was.

“I’m fine.”

“Tauriel you are anything _but_ fine. What aren’t you telling me? What was that bottle on your desk?” Kìli rested his head against the polished wood of the door, begging her to listen to him. Kìli heard the slow, quiet movements of his wife as she walked quietly to the door, opening it. He sighed, drawing her close to him. Tauriel began to relax, winding her arms around his neck as he pulled hair out of her plait. He’d always loved her hair, that was how they’d met, he’d followed a shocking vision of red hair through a crowded street in Mirkwood. Much to his surprise he’d discovered that this beautiful goddess was only half-an-inch shorter than he was (and _he_ was constantly called a bean-pole by his brother) and certainly a much better aim than he.

Also, she may or may not have managed to save him after a gun-man opened fire and shot him in the leg. And he may or may not have confessed his undying love for a complete (near-complete) stranger as he was drugged, and began to sew up the wound as best they could, on a yacht, trying to escape the gun-man.

“Promise you won’t wake the entire train?” Tauriel asked as she pulled away from the hug. Kìli smiled softly, gently caressing the side of her face.

“Well, I can’t guarantee that…”

“That bottle was to help with my stomach problems-“

“Yes, you’ve been rather sick, as I remember.” Kìli began to slowly panic, wondering what on Arda was wrong with his wife.

“I met with Dr Oin, a doctor travelling on this train, after dinner.” Tauriel began to explain with a breath, staring down at his chest rather than meeting his eyes.

“It isn’t anything serious, is it? My love, _amrâlimê_.” She smiled at the Khuzdul endearment. “Is it? I can’t bear to lose you, not after you have saved me so many times.” He cradled her face in his hand, she tilted her head to look up, smiling softly.

“I _do_ think expecting a child should be classified as serious.”

“You’re… you’re.” His whole world spun around him, it even felt as if the train had stopped moving at its blistering pace specifically to allow him to take in this moment.

“Do you think you mother will tolerate me now? After all, what was it she said? I seduced and debauched her poor baby boy.” Tauriel laughed, throwing her arms around his neck as he swung her around in a passionate embrace before lowering her gently, letting her soft lips meet his. “Kìli did I say something wrong?” his wife asked tenderly as they pulled away from another embrace, he supposed his face must’ve betrayed what he began to think.

“We shouldn’t have done this.”

“The baby? As far as I remember you were _rather_ enthusiastic-“

“No, _this_.”

“Oh.” She understood with a nod, pushing unruly curls away from his face, a finger tracing his stubble. “We will be alright, you always see me right. You will be a wonderful father.”

“And you an even more wonderful mother.”

Fate was always against them. Fate had thought it would the funniest joke in the history of mankind to allow the most reckless man in the world to become a father.

* * *

Any previous barriers set up were completely demolished come next morning. Bilbo had found he’d over-slept from the excitement the night before, and was thus a little late to the dining cart. It seemed everyone was in a bit of a frenzy, wanting to get off the train and continue to their destination in one way or another. Above the din the shrill voice of Mrs Peachum could be heard, complaining about everything that dared give her offence, even the sweet newly-weds trying to mind their own business in the corner.

“And if you even had a _shred_ of decency you harlot-“

“Madam, I suggest you leave them well alone.” Fìli Vìlison had been a bystander to the events, just as Bilbo had. Fìli’s voice had become dangerously cool, he stood from his seat, crossing over to the woman and grabbing her arm. “You are causing enough of a scene, there is no need to drag innocent parties into your unintelligible nonsense.” With a huff, Mrs Peachum moved over to assault Dori with a new barrage of stories concerning her daughter. Bilbo noted with a slight interest that Fìli wasn’t showing any of the agitation from their previous train delay, despite the fact this one was infinitely worse.

The Colonel had begun to address Bilbo in careful Khuzdul however Bilbo politely corrected him and told him he was confusing him with Gandalf. How anyone could confuse him with Gandalf, Bilbo had no idea. He turned to see who was missing counting His illustrious Majesty, Azog and his valet, the Prince’s companion, and the Embassy couple who from memory, Bilbo had seen leave the cart as the beautiful woman had begun to cry.

“You’re patient, aren’t you?” Bilbo said casually to Fìli. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. Bilbo Baggins.”

“Fìli Vìlison, at your service.” Fìli shook his hand firmly. “But patience? What can one do?”

“Careful, you’ll sound like a philosopher.” Bilbo teased. Fìli gave a half-smile.

“That would imply a detached attitude. No, I’ve just learned not to use emotion unnecessarily- Ah, as to what happened earlier.” Fìli quirked a brow at what must’ve been Bilbo’s very telling expression. “Well, could you stand by when someone innocent is being insulted? And after all, it was about time that someone told her to shut the fuck up. The way she’d talk to me about her daughter you’d think I wanted to marry her.”

“You, dear sir, are a strong character. Judging by these headless chickens running around, probably the strongest.”

“Oh no, indeed there is one stronger than I. See him?” Bilbo coughed as Prince Thorin entered the dining cart, companion in tow, giving a severe nod to all in the room before taking a seat. “You’ve seen what he does. He’s not even the most attractive man-“

“Well, many women from my generation would argue with you. He was the most sought-after bachelor at social functions when we were your age.”

“Oh flatter him then, give him that.” Fìli’s lip twitched with amusement. “But all he has to do is beckon with a finger and ask for something with a polite voice, and the entirety of Arda would come running after him, considering it a privilege to wait on him hand and foot.” With that Fìli smiled and took his leave.

Gandalf had decided to grace everyone with his presence, calmly taking a seat by the window and stared out at the flurry of snow. The doctor sharing Gandalf’s berth bade that Bilbo join them, however the grim expression on his face had Bilbo doubting that this meeting bode well.

“There’s a bit of an emergency, I must say.” Gandalf spoke in hushed terms, eyes darting about to check that no one (especially Mrs Peachum) was eavesdropping. “A passenger was found dead in their compartment.”

“Who? There’s a _dead_ person?”

“Yes. Mr Azog.” Dr Oin confirmed. “We were thinking, that as the son of the most famed-detective of all time, you might want to look into it.” Bilbo took a deep breath, fingers tightening over the edges of the table as he grabbed onto it for dear life. Azog. The man had come to him, warning him of this. Did he not reach for his loaded pistol in time? Was he asleep?

Now the guilt began to wash over him, it always did. Every time he was approached to solve a case. When were people ever going to understand that he simply _didn’t_ solve crimes? That was his mother, he merely wrote stories. That was the last thing he remembered before uttering ‘nope’ and dropping in a dead faint.


	5. Part 3- The Evidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kudoses and loveely comments. I do apologise that this chapter is a little shorter than all the others, but then again next chapter will be most if not all of the characters' alibis. Also, out of complete curiosity, does anyone know who Mrs Peachum corresponds with in Tolkein!Verse? Anyway, thanks and enjoy the chapter :)

 

“I’ll be fine, just sit quietly.” Bilbo murmured, handed a steaming cup of tea by Dr Oin.

“You’re been sitting quietly long enough! Tell me, when did trivial things like dish-cloths and the type of cars men drove become such a big deal to you?” And Gandalf began to unleash all hell, berating Bilbo for every little thing.

“Since they died!” Bilbo retorted the moment he’d had quite enough. “Since my mother and father died. Since my pesky cousins tried taking the manor from me, since my cousin lost all his stocks in the Wall Street crash and killed himself. Since _everything_ went down the drain!”

 “To think that I would be reprimanded as such by the son of Belladonna Took! Bilbo Baggins, this has gone far enough. For the love of your mother and father’s memories, I ask of you. For the sake of the dead man on board, I beg of you.”

“I can’t say I liked the man… but if it eases my guilt…” Bilbo evaluated the situation slowly. His mother and father had of course taught him the basics of his profession, he could at least try to start the investigation before the police arrived. Or even solve it, now _there_ was a prospect worth considering, might even be able to get him out of this severe writer’s block.

“It may. Now I believe you will be having some questions?” Gandalf handed Bilbo a small, leather book that was becoming increasingly familiar. He knew that worn, brown leather very well, the small ink stains and the pressed flower petals on the inside. If he wasn’t mistaken this was his father’s journal.

“So this crime occurred when?” Bilbo heard the small break in his voice as he tried to speak clearly, not caught up in the sentiment of the diary.

“He was last known to be alive just before one, when he spoke to the conductor.”

“Yes, I heard that… what was it he said?” Bilbo asked, pulling his trusty fountain pen out of his pocket and began to take notes.

“ _Ambâkh. Mâshgami ê_ ,” Bard answered “It means; Nothing. I was mistaken.”

“But let us presently investigate the scene of the crime.” Gandalf called the attention of the men once again. The door of berth three was held as wide as it would allow, allowing the three men to enter.

“Bard, before you leave. Why was the body found?” Bilbo opened to a blank page at the back of his father’s diary, pen aloft. He spoke somewhat jerkily.

“His assistant knocked at the door, but he didn’t answer. One of the attendants came and asked if he was going to take a _dèjeuner_. He still wasn’t answering to I opened the door and found it chained, the wind was bloody cold and came through though, and I thought that it didn’t seem right, so I broke down the door and we found him-“

“That’ll be all, thank you.” Bilbo nodded, taking it down.

Bilbo had practically grown up seeing dead bodies. His relatives called it unhealthy for the small child, and completely indecorous for a woman to do such things.

Azog was no different to his fallen brothers and sisters, looking more terrified rather than at peace with that had happened, though.

“The stabs certainly don’t make any sense.” Bilbo managed to say, standing next to the corpse. Several stained patches on the fabric seemed to still be wet, however others remained bloodless. “Gandalf, stand where I am and take my pen. Hold it in your right hand and try to stab him here.” Bilbo pointed to a deep wound in Azog’s left shoulder.

“It’s impossible.” Dr Oin exhaled softly, noticing the predicament. “One would have to strike backhanded in a fashion-“

“Or be left-handed. However, if Gandalf were to switch hands and stab say, here.” Bilbo pointed to his abdomen. “It would only be possible right-handed. But not all the wounds are bleeding, so we’d have to assume one of these blows killed him, and the rest were stabbing a dead man.”

“It’s a bit excessive, isn’t it? You’d think to strike the man once then leave him be.” Oin observed, Bilbo nodded.

“Maybe they were just pissed off.”

“They, Bilbo? Please, do explain.”

“The blows _have_ to have been delivered by two people- Mr Voleur?” Bilbo was disturbed by a knock at the door, Azog’s assistant stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide-open in horror.

“So the news is true then? He’s dead.” Bilbo nodded, exiting the compartment with a nod to Dr Oin and Gandalf.

“Well, I’d best explain it to you, maybe you could provide us more information on suspects. I’m afraid he’s been murdered.”

“Murdered?” It was hard to think of Nor Voleur as anyone capable of seriousness with such an odd mustache. “I knew the man was tough, tough as nails, but when I’d heard he’d died I’d thought it might’ve been-“

“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t natural. Unless of course, your definition of natural, Mr Voleur, is twelve stab wounds to the upper-torso. Nori, is it possible for you to give me information on Mr Azog? How long were you in his employment for?”

“About a year.” He knitted his brows together in concentration before opening his mouth again. “I’d been hired by an agency to replace his son as his assistant he’d had a row with. Azog wanted to travel the world and I happened to be good with languages. “

“Do you know where in America he’s from?” Gandalf poked his head through the ajar door of the compartment, handing Bilbo back his pen. Bilbo nodded in thanks and began to furiously write down what Nori had previously informed him of.

“No sir, all I know is that his full name is Bennet M. Azog and that he _is_ an American citizen along with other citizenships across the globe. To tell you the truth, Bilbo, if I may call you that; is that Mr Azog never spoke of his life or anything personal. Apart from the fact he has a son; Bolg, I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything else. The boy’s not much better than his father, the father despises him so much that the boy was sent to harsh reform schools. Though, like father like son, they look repulsive.”

“Would you know why he never talked about his life?” Azog struck Bilbo as the complete opposite, the type who’d shove his triumphs in your face, this was new. It was certainly an interesting portrait at any rate.

“I have formed some… theories, I suppose you could put it. I don’t think Azog’s his real name, reckon he’s running from something and ashamed. Could be his beginnings, he started receiving several threats.”

“Threats? I was informed of those by him, personally. May I see?”

“Here.” Nori handed over a small stack of letters. Upon closer inspection the writing appeared to be made up of two people’s. “Some have been torn up, others burned, I’m sorry I couldn’t save more-“

“It’s quite fine.”

_‘Thought you’d double cross us and get away with it did you? Not on your life. We’re out to GET you, Azog, we will get you.’_

_‘We’re gonna take you on a ride, Azog. We’re gonna GET you some time soon, see.’_

“The style’s monotonous.” Bilbo managed to reply. “Tell me, Nori, did you like your employer?”

“No,” he said decisively “There was something about him that seemed off. And I’ve known my fair share of ‘bad’ people.”

“Alright, just one last thing, you name and current place of residence, and the last time you saw him.”

“Nori J. Voleur-“ Bilbo hurried to write down the current place of residence in New York, thanking him for the information regarding to the last time he saw Azog. It all seemed to match up, the last known correspondence, this dismissal at ten. But two people, why was it always coming down to two people?

* * *

“So, what is it you’ve found?”

“Smell this, this would explain the victim’s intertia.” Oin handed him a glass of water. “Drugged.”

“Were there any other matches?” Bilbo asked, holding an ash tray in his hands. He’d once had a friend who’d stolen an ash tray from Buckingham Palace, never gave it back though. Within the ash tray were several pieces of paper and two mis-matched matches (pun not intended, though Bilbo internally praised himself), one with a flat head and the other a rounded one. Bilbo had always praised himself upon having keen eyes, ever since his parents did, now it was time to see just how good they really were.

“It would’ve had to be a strong blow to deliver than wound.” Oin continued his professional examination. “See this, it’s driven through several well-build muscles. This wound by his sternum has managed to pierce through cartilage. Yet these other blows here are rather pathetic. It’s as if they were delivered by both man and woman.”

“Are you implying, Dr Oin that women are not capable of delivering such blows?” Gandalf asked archly, arms folded.

“No, I am not, but it is always a possibility that it was true both this way and the opposite. I’m afraid, Mr Baggins, we’ve not found that packet of train matches.” In his efforts, Bilbo had found amongst other things, a lace handkerchief embroidered with a rune, and a dented watch. The watch showed the time of death as having been quarter-past one.

“Well, the time certainly fits, my dear boy.” Gandalf examined the watch closer. “What _is_ this paper?”

“There was something mum used to do, hang on. Dr Oin, will you fetch me Bard please?” The good doctor asked for a repetition of the request before hurrying off to find the conductor. Bard appeared not a moment later, brow quirked. “Bard, how many women are on this train?”

“Several, but in this carriage just the two.” Bard answered unsurely.

“Would you fetch me their hatboxes and a curling iron from one of them? Tell them that this is an investigation, make up an excuse if it doesn’t seem good enough.” With a nod, Bard left, leaving Bilbo to continue investigating the scene, thankful that the weather provided a natural morgue. He’d have hated to travel in summer, the stench of a body was the stuff of nightmares. He’d remembered once, when he’d asked Belladonna what a dead body smelled like, and in the middle of summer she left a slab of pork out on a bench for several days. Well, as he found out as he got older, she certainly wasn’t wrong.

“That doesn’t make sense… If the murderer did not escape through this here window, and not through the communicating door, as it was bolted; then how the devil did he get out?”

“Or she. Or they. My dear Oin, it’s the perfect locked room mystery. Ah, Bard!” Gandalf chimed, taking the hat boxes and curling iron from the conductor. “Thank you for your services, you may reassure the passengers that everything is alright-“

“If you don’t mind, sir, I would like to see what you are about to do, should I have to explain myself.”

“Very well, Bilbo, what is it?” Bilbo was handed the hatboxes and the irons, carefully disassembling them to reveal humps of mesh wire.

“Mum had several of these, you used to skewer hats onto them. These are a bit old-fashioned, thank _god_ Mrs Peachum is. I don’t think the matches, or at least, one of the matches belonged to Azog. I believe that these letters were burned by someone else, after or during the murder.” Bilbo carefully wriggled the tiny, salvageable scrap of paper between the flattened wire mesh and held with the curling tongs. Slowly, as he held the paper over the spirit lamp, the charred writing began to reappear, barely readable before for a split-second, the glowed as if they were written in fire.

_-ember little Kira Thraìnson_

“Bilbo, Bilbo what is it?” Gandalf asked worriedly, reading Bilbo’s stormy expression.

“That bastard deserved to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to cover art from my tumblr: http://marysfanficdrabbles.tumblr.com/post/111045028061/bilbo-baggins-acclaimed-childrens-and-adults


	6. Bilbo's Journal, Assignment of Berths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo, channelling his inner angsty 15-year-old is writing in his diary *cough* journal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incredibly sorry about my writers' block, I'm halfway through the next chapter and it is very long. So, I've decided to tide the hiatus over with this small edit.

_Bilbo's Journal_

_January 1935_

 

_I have come to the conclusion that the murderer is still upon this goddamned train. I'm sure father is fuming, turning in his grave at my sheer nerve of dropping a curse word in his beloved journal. Anyway, I have taken the liberty of borrowing a copy of the berth assignments from Mr Cyprian Bard and have copied it below. This case proves to be more and more intriguing by the minute. I honestly hope that Mrs Peachum will shut up for long enough, or I swear to God I *will* tell her to shut up. I will be calling all the passengers to the dining cart in order to be interrogated within a couple of moments. Gandalf will assist me._

 

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed that and all feedback would definitely be appreciated :)


End file.
